Just a Message
by ornamental-reciprocity
Summary: He was sent to deliver a message, or rather, to make an impression. But in a world where the princess is afraid to leave her own room and the king lives on the edge of lunacy, it's going to have to be a pretty big gesture. Possibly a One-Shot.


He was good at moving silently. Very good. It was a talent that he had cultivated over the years, one he had honed incessantly. He was also quite good at moving unseen. His black clothes and unnaturally gray skin in the darkened hallways slid by unnoticed. He thrived on a sense of secrecy, on the stealth that filled his very limbs. He had been created with just that purpose in mind, so it was only natural.

They knew that, of course. That was exactly why they had chosen him for this mission.

He poked his head around another corner, searching for any signs of life. There were none. The hallway was completely empty, apart from a deep sapphire carpet and a few torches that burned all day long. He knew from his research that these torches were connected directly to a pipeline that fed them with oil, so there would be no one coming by to check on their progress. Convenient for the lamplighters and also dreadfully convenient for him. It never ceased to amaze him just how much security had been sacrificed in the name of convenience. It was almost inconceivable to him that these people weren't more careful, especially with creatures like him on the loose.

Keeping close to the walls, he dashed down the perfectly straight hallway, taking deep breaths of the heady, scented air. He suppressed the urge to cough on the bitter taste the air left in his mouth. It was all of the damn enchantments, he knew. Despite his skills, which he knew were almost unsurpassed, they had insisted on covering him in layers of magic. Spells to cover his footsteps, spells to help him blend in with the shadows, spells that he didn't even know what they did. The aura of it all was stifling and he couldn't get a decent breath. Sweat was beginning to accumulate on his forehead, and he suspected that it was a result of all the magic encapsulating him. But they had insisted that all of them were absolutely necessary. It was laughable now, the amount of thought that they had put into this mission, and all he had met thus far were a few guards at the gate and one unusually nosy cat.

He angrily exhaled, not anxious to taste the spelled air again. He could not wait to finish the mission, to be free of these enchantments. He couldn't wait to breathe free again.

He turned another corner. Still no one. Only three more turns to go. The first one was easy. He was, after all, wandering through one of the more deserted corridors, one of the hallways that had been added on during an extension at some point in history which had since lost its relevance and was almost never used. This place was almost obscenely large.

The last two, however, were trickier. He emerged from the lesser-used path into a wider, better lit hallway, that someone had actually taken the time to decorate. There were a few paintings on the wall, portraits mostly, hung opposite narrow windows with no glass panes. This hall was more travelled, the sort of hall where a servant or a guard might just be wondering at all hours of the night. He was unlikely to meet one, but there was always the possibility.

He approached the turn cautiously, peeking his head out just enough to see to either side. There was no one yet. If he craned his head, he could just see his goal in front of him. About two hundred yards ahead was a tiny archway that led to an even tinier hall. If he could reach there, it was a straight shot to his goal and almost no chance of being interrupted. He just had to cross through the larger hall to get there.

Two hundred yards, he thought to himself. Not so very far. He waited a second longer for someone to come out. No one did. He braced himself, knowing that the second he took a step into the hall, he would already have to be running. Taking a few steps back, he readied himself to take off.

He took off, his feet flew across the carpet and in mere moments, he was in the hallway. He turned towards his destination, just in time to see the light of a lamp reflected on the wall at the end of the hallway. A light that was getting brighter. Which meant someone was coming.

For a split second he contemplated if he should turn around and hide until the light passed. But, judging by how fast he was traveling, he wouldn't be able to stop and turn around quickly. He would have to slow down first, and he didn't have the time for that. Besides, if he didn't slow down enough, at this speed he was likely to fall over. He was nothing if not acutely aware of his own balance.

So, he made a run for it, desperately closing the distance between himself and his goal. The carpet flew by beneath him as the light grew brighter. At last, when the hallway was close enough, he threw himself into it, colliding hard with the wall, but, perhaps because of the magic he had been cursing mere moments ago, it was all blessedly silent.

The light was bright now, and soon he could see the lamp just beside him. The man carrying it was a brawny fellow, tall and blond and wearing the official armor and crest that marked him as a guard. His face had an upturned nose and flat, dull mouth, and tired, glassy eyes that gave him the look of an unusually dimwitted pig. He moved with practiced speed through the halls, but not with confidence, and he seemed to flinch every time his boots made contact with the ground of his armor clanked a little.

Apparently, he wasn't supposed to be there either. How very interesting.

He didn't even make an attempt to look towards the little hallway where the intruder was hiding. In fact, he kept his face deliberately straight ahead of him and quickened his pace a little, if only so that, if he were caught, at least they couldn't add the crime of going down that hallway to the list.

The intruder wondered off-handedly where exactly the man was going, but didn't investigate further. It didn't matter to him if the guard got caught, so long as the guard didn't catch him.

He watched as the lamp slowly faded into the distance. At last, it was gone, and he was alone again. Well, not quite alone. He directed his gaze down the little hallway where he now stood. At the very end of the hall was a small wooden door with a few iron supports holding it together. There was a heavy iron doorknob attached to it but, as he soon found out, it was unlocked. Strange, but not entirely unexpected. This door was special, even if it didn't look it. The usual rules didn't apply here.

There were no guards around it, despite the treasure within. There was nothing protecting it but the king's reputation and threats. He didn't take kindly to anyone who stepped in this hallway. But, of course, the king would have to catch him to punish him, and the intruder had utmost faith in his ability to best the king. He had been ordered not to leave any bodies behind, but that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't allowed to kill, just that he'd have to be more thorough in his clean-up.

The man quietly turned the doorknob and, opening the door just a crack, slipped inside. He shut the door behind him, wincing involuntarily as the latch gave a nearly inaudible click. The man bit his lower lip, remembering that the spells around him surrounded only him, not the objects near him. Well, it was time to fix that.

Carefully, he extracted a tiny vial from his pocket. It was a little glass container, holding some kind of curious liquid which looked clear in the light but turned a deep blue in the darkness. He wasn't sure exactly how that worked. He always preferred action, and had never had the patience for the subtleties of potion making. Nonetheless, this little creation before him, he was assured, was one of nothing short of brilliant. It soundproofed it's container for a few hours, so that everyone inside the container could hear what was going on, but no one outside heard a sound. They had informed him that it worked no matter what the container was, be it a vial, a box, or even a room. He didn't know how a simple potion could do all that, but he figured it was time to put it to the test.

He threw the vial to the floor, watching it shatter on the hard-wood ground. He braced himself for the noise of shattering glass, but nothing came. It was perfectly silent. Apparently, it worked. As he watched, the liquid seeped from the wreckage into the floor boards until there was nothing left but shards of broken glass to prove that anything had ever happened.

He smiled. He was safe now. No one would hear or suspect a thing. With the room at last secured, he took a moment to examine his surroundings. They were exactly as they had been described to him, how he had pictured them in his mind.

The room had stone walls and a stone ceiling, but a wooden floor. It was probable, then, that the wood had been layered over the stone to create a sense of comfort and to preserve a little heat. That wood was then covered with a few crimson carpets spread here and there around the room. They were all the same, rectangular shape and color, with bits of silver fringe along the edges.

There wasn't much in the way of furniture, just a fireplace with only a few hot coals left, a large dresser built in some light colored wood, and bookshelf of the same material, which had been filled beyond capacity, leaving a few books fallen to the floor, all on one side of the room. Jammed in a corner, there was a large mirror on the wall, along with a small vanity. Finally, near the center of the room, just pushed up against the wall was a large, canopied bed. The bedspread was the same color as the carpets and more than twice as large as could conceivably be useful, given the size of the girl within it.

He smiled upon seeing her. It was really quite incredible. At this moment, she looked so fragile and pale. The girl was perhaps twenty years old, and she looked as though she were drowning in the blankets and pillows, her face and arms barely breaking the surface. The red sheets and the gray lights only served to bleach her skin, until she looked almost corpse-like. The only color about her was her thin, blond hair, which was strewn haphazardly about her face, and her chapped, red lips. She was curled up and twisted around in such an odd position. Her arms were skinny and stuck out like broken birds' wings from under the covers. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, while her neck was bent strangely until her nose was almost touching her bony shoulders.

He was almost taken aback wondering how this girl, this girl who was supposed to represent so much, had fallen asleep like that. As he watched her lay there, her limbs twisted into ungodly, unconscious contortions, all he could think was that, if he didn't know better, he would have thought that someone had gotten to her first and left her like that. But, no, her chest was moving up and down slowly. She was breathing. She was alive.

Suddenly, he realized that this fact took him by surprise. Had he expected her to be dead? Of course not. His mission would be a failure if she were already dead. He had needed her alive. And yet, seeing her looking so pathetic, it was almost impossible to reconcile the image in his mind of the great woman he had been sent to defeat with this useless child. It almost would have been easier if she were dead.

But she wasn't, and there was a mission to complete and no time like the present to do it. He approached the girl and roughly shook her awake, watching her as her neck was flung from side to side, the weak muscles in it offering little resistance to the momentum. At last her eyes snapped open, her head snapped up, and some meager approximation of life worked its way into her body. He dropped her shoulders and stepped away.

There was a spark of greatness in her eyes, he thought to himself, almost by way of compensation for the disappointment of a mission. But just a spark. She didn't gaze at him as fearlessly as he had expected. In fact, she was nothing but fear. But still, there was a bit of something in there. Perhaps it was intelligence. He couldn't be sure, and he didn't think he could contemplate on this for too much longer.

His master would not be pleased if he was late, even if the master himself had requested that he learn as much as he could about her while he was there. It was a terrible contradiction to live under.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady, though her hands were shaking.

"Unimportant," he answered, "What matters is this. Do you have rouge around here?"

"What?"

"Rouge. I'm told that ladies keep it," he answered. The girl made a noise that was torn between a hysterical laugh and a scream.

"I..." she choked out, unsure how to respond.

"It doesn't matter, much, of course. I brought paints of my own, but I thought that the effect would be so much more striking coming from something of yours."

She didn't make a noise, just watched him as he sauntered over to her vanity, throwing a few drawers open.

"Well, if you have it," he continued, "I imagine you'd put it over here. Probably." As he searched through the drawers, he watched her in the mirror. She didn't even try to move, which was lucky for her. He may have been asked to gather information on her, which was really the only reason he was talking to her in the first place, but he wasn't above violence. Far from it. If she resisted, he would respond.

At last, he found a little, padded box, done up with ribbons on top, containing fine, red powder. That was it. From what he understood, the stuff was meant to be applied sparingly, rubbed into the skin to create a reddish glow. But he had seen too many women badly made up to not know that, when applied too heavily, that stuff was as good as paint. It would suit his purposes.

He took the little box with him back to the bed, where the girl had managed to pull herself into a kneeling position, with the blankets wrapped around her protectively, as though the fabric would help somehow. It was a strange fascination these people had with covering themselves, as though keeping something out of sight would keep it safer. Of course, the girl would know all about that.

"Does my father know you're here?" the girl asked at last, her head down as though she expected a slap for the impertinence. She might have gotten one, too, if his hands hadn't been occupied.

"Would I be here if he did?" the man muttered.

"I wouldn't know," the girl answered, "It's entirely possible. I don't know you. I don't really know my father, either." The man hesitated for a second, but only a second, slightly taken aback by that response.

"You think your father might let a man into your bedroom in the middle of the night?"

The girl's face turned red, and it was clear that she regretted speaking at all, but the man didn't intend to let her drop the subject. She had just stumbled her way into exactly the sort of thing he needed to know.

"Answer me, is that something your father would do?"

"I don't know," she answered, and he could tell by the sound of her voice that she was desperately trying to be honest.

"Really? Your father. The man so determined to protect his daughter he doesn't even trust the guards to stand outside her door? A man so desperate to see you safely locked away that he won't let a man step foot in this hallway, or even look inside."

"I didn't know that," she whispered. He looked at her curiously.

"Is that so? Then, you probably also didn't know that everyone who is allowed in here, the three, elderly servants, to be exact, are followed to and from your room every day. Every article of clothing you wear is inspected for hidden daggers. Every bit of food you eat has to be tasted first. This whole area is all but forbidden to cross. All because your father thinks that you'll be safe if you're kept carefully alone." Paranoid in all the wrong ways, the man considered, remembering how easy it had been to slip through the nearly empty hallways.

The king had long ago promised to murder anyone caught trespassing near his daughter's room. And, going by the king's well known, violent temper, that was not an idle threat. Fortunately, the intruder was not deterred by these threats, and as a result, had been able to use the king's desperate security as his greatest weakness.

"I never knew that," she said again.

"Of course you didn't. Tell me, do you get out of here much?"

"Out of the castle?"

"I was thinking out of this room, but the castle works just as well." He shrugged a little, and seeing her discomfort, decided to push it a little bit farther. It was clear that, no matter what potential this girl had, she was beyond terrified. Probably a side effect of her unusual upbringing. He was all but positive that he could scare her into honesty.

With practiced arrogance, he sat himself down on the bed, beside her. In one smooth motion, he threw his feet up on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, making himself as comfortable as possible. With his left hand, he pulled a corner of the blanket on top of himself, while he right hand continued combing his pockets for the items he needed.

"Well, do you?" he asked again, while she stared down at him, shocked, yet unsure what to do.

"Well, yes, I get out of here. I mean, this room. A good amount. Yesterday I went to gardens. And the week before, I went to the library. I can leave whenever, honest, but there's not much to do out there that I can't do in here."

"Is that so?" he muttered, with a pointed look that told her to go on. She was too terrified to object or question why.

"But, leaving the castle... I don't do that much. Please... it's not that I can't. It's just I don't like to."

He gave a disbelieving grunt but let it drop. It was obvious the girl had almost never been outside this building. Whether that was her doing or the king's he wasn't quite sure, but it was apparent that the girl was beyond ignorant of the outside world. That might make this a little more difficult.

"Tell me something," he began, "do you ever go to the Temple?"

"Oh, yes, I mean, I do. Sometimes. I mean. It's... it's very close, just past the gate. Practically part of the castle." She was blushing now, and he thought it might have been embarrassed. Probably because she didn't attend services as often as she was supposed to. Another strange custom of these people. "And there's a special entrance, for us, that is, my father and I and... well... I mean...there's a special place for us to sit and everything. It's fenced off. It's like I'm not really leaving the castle at all. I don't mind that too much."

"So then, you've seen the paintings?"

"Paintings?"

"The big ones, at the front of the Temple, can't miss them."

"Oh... oh... yes." She was struggling for words, but it didn't occur to her to stop talking or to lie. It was so fantastically easy, he thought.

"Then you know the one right in the center."

"Of course," she nodded. He smiled. Good. Of course, there was almost no one in the kingdom that didn't know that image. It was one of the most famous pictures in the whole of the country. Everyone would recognize it, instantly.

"Describe it."

"It's a scene from the final battle of the Imprisoning War," she whispered.

"What's happening in it?" he prompted.

"The hero is fighting the demon. And... he's got a sword... well they've both got swords. But he's the only one using it. The demon has one, but he's not holding it. It's just sort of there. And... well... there's some fire... and they're... they're fighting... with the sword."

"You said that bit already," he told her.

"Oh," she answered, meekly.

"Who else is there?"

"The princess," she answered, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to remember what else was in the painting. She had seen it so many times before, but she still struggled to remember the details. Of course, she had only seen it twice in the Temple itself. She had only really been there twice. But she had seen copies of it in books.

"What's she doing?"

"Well... not much. She's... well... she's trapped. Chained to the wall. She's just watching."

"Yes," he confirmed, "and how is she chained to the wall?"

"By her left arm."

"And what's so special about that?" he asked, feeling like he was luring her to the answer almost as if she were a dog following a piece of meat.

"She's bound twice. Two pieces of iron wrapped around her arm Once at the wrist and once at the elbow."

"Precisely," the intruder agreed. "Do you know why?"

"No," she answered. "No one does."

"Oh, someone does."

"Oh," was all she said, like she couldn't bring herself to ask the obvious question. It didn't matter. He wouldn't have told her anyway. The master didn't appreciate when his name came up unexpectedly.

"And there is a reason. Would you like to know it?"

"I don't know," she answered, and he got the impression that she honestly didn't. She didn't even know if she wanted something. It was strange. But this, he supposed, was the reason she only had a spark of greatness in her. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if this was some failing in her character, or if her father had just scarred her. At the very least, he seemed to have scared her, until the only place she found sanctuary was in this room. The intruder was rather pleased that he could steal that sense of safety from her, too.

"Well, I'll tell you. It has to do with a power that she had. A power that the demon wanted, but couldn't take, and so he chose to suppress it instead. If he couldn't have it, at least she couldn't use it to hurt him. So he weaved an enchantment into those cuffs, to block her from her powers, but one cuff simply wasn't enough. The power was too great. So he bound her arm twice over, leaving her on that wall, unable to escape. It wasn't the most elegant plan, but it was effective. She couldn't do a thing to fight him."

"Oh."

"Of course," the man continued, "that bit was lost to history. All that remains of that little story is a picture on a wall that everyone knows but no one quite understands. And the scholars speculate about it, day in day out, but they'll never know. But that doesn't matter. After all, they don't have to understand it, they just have to recognize it."

He saw the question in her face, but she didn't know to ask it, forcing him to continue anyway.

"You see, princess, I came here to deliver a message, and you're going to help me."

At last, he pulled the objects from his pocket that he had been fingering since he arrived. The girl's back went rigid and her eyes widened as she saw that he held two silver cuffs between his fingers.

"Why?" she managed to gasp.

"It's just a message from a friend," was all he answered. "Don't worry. These don't have magic in them. There's no need, at the moment. They're just for show. Still, let's make it a good one, shall we?"

He rolled up and knelt in front of her. With a firm shove, he pushed her against the wall. On an instinctive level, the girl tried to struggle, but her mind and her soul were frozen. It didn't take much for him to subdue her. In only seconds, he had her back pressed against the wall, and her left arm firmly held in his right hand. He pushed her hand up, as high as he could force it, until a flash of pain shot through her shoulder as it was yanked up. At last, he he pinned that hand to the wall and with his left hand pushed one of the two cuffs over her wrist. He closed it around her, and watched as one side fused itself to the wall. It was another bit of magic he didn't quite understand, but he was nonetheless pleased with the results. With the girl safely pinned, he let go of her hand and used both of his to fashion the second cuff around her elbow. It too attached itself to the wall with ease.

At last, his mission complete, he stepped back from the girl. Her white shift wasn't quite the same as the regal dress her counterpart had warn. She didn't have the same fiery look of determination or the same courage. But the pose, at the very least, was recognizable. And if he squinted, their faces looked similar. It would do.

Finally, he selected the rouge that he had brought over and dipped his index finger into it, coating it with the red powder. He took her left hand once more in his own and pulled on it until he had easy access to the back of her hand. Carefully, he used the red powder to paint the most blasphemous symbol he knew, the inverted triangles, on the smooth surface. The holy symbol, upside down, the antithesis of everything these people stood for. He blew on his creation, scattering any loose dust. He had to say, he was rather pleased with his choice of materials. It was nice to see the princess marked so vilely by her own possessions.

This complete, he gathered the rest of his belongings, haphazardly dropping the rouge container and allowing it to spill all over the girl's shift, looking like a blood stain. He made his way to the door, ready to make his escape, although he wasn't expecting much in the way of trouble. He looked over to the girl one last time and was fairly certain that he saw her crying. He supposed that that much was to be expected. He waved to her a sarcastic farewell as he shut the door behind him.

They would find her in the morning. There would be panic. Probably a few executions of innocents. Perhaps that guard he had met earlier. Wouldn't that be nice? But there was one thing he knew for sure.

If this didn't send a message to these people, then nothing would.

* * *

><p>Hey,<p>

So, I'm not sure if this is going to be a one-shot, or if I want it to turn into something longer after I finish Stalemate (sorry about the wait- I did NaNoWriMo, and I wrote 18,000 words in one day and suddenly couldn't stand the thought of writing for about three weeks). So, instead I wrote this.

Kind of weird, I know. Anyway, so if people think it's terrible and should stop here lest I inflict upon the world an evil it has hitherto only seen in James Bond movies, tell me. Or if people want me to continue it, let me know.

As always, read, review, enjoy, etc.

'Till next time

Ornamental Reciprocity


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